


Cat's Eyes

by EllieMurasaki



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e16 Dark Side of the Moon, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-08
Updated: 2010-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-08 19:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieMurasaki/pseuds/EllieMurasaki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A corpse doesn't need a gun. A recently dead man would very much like to have a gun, if only to use it on the bastards who killed him and his brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cat's Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Title from AC/DC's "Back in Black" (don't try to push your luck, just get out of my way).

Clothes and IDs Roy and Walt couldn't use. Toiletries they wouldn't use. Paperclips and razor blades sewn into waistbands and hems. A car that, if sold, would come to the attention of a particular one among the very few frequent buyers of parts for the 1967 Chevy Impala in a matter of hours. Two cell phones, In Case of Emergency 1 each other and ICE 2 the aforementioned car parts supplier. Cassettes labeled Metallica, Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, AC/DC. Photographs labeled Mary, John, Dean, Sam, Jess, Adam. Half a bottle of whiskey. A fistful of packets of diner salt.

And a bronze amulet on a leather cord.

 

There was a payphone outside Kramer's Photo Supply in Wheeling, West Virginia. Every set of prints on it could be tracked to someone who swore blind he hadn't been the one to call 911 from that phone, or whose voice was an octave too high for it to be possible for her to be the anonymous caller. The Grove Terrace Motel in Wheeling, two men in ski masks, average height and build, driving a battered blue Toyota pickup, breaking into room fifteen and sounds that might be gunshots and carrying out two bundles in sleeping bags, bundles quite large enough to be bodies. The call was placed shortly after ten in the morning, and the motel was crawling with police within an hour; the scene wouldn't otherwise have been found for days, because the room was paid in advance and the occupants had warned off the maid.

The clerk described the men who checked into room fifteen as white males, the tall one a drunk and the very tall one a druggie, and the sheer number of empty beer cans in the room testified to the accuracy of her account on at least one point; the black car she said they drove wasn't there, but since all she could say about the car was that it was black, there would be no way of locating it.

The room had two queen beds, each with two shotgun shells buried in the mattress. No question that two people had been shot and killed in this room. The real questions were, who were the victims? Who were the killers? Why, for what possible reason, had the killers taken every sign of the victims' presence bar the bloody sheets, bloody shirts, and beer cans? Why take the corpses?

 

The Pittsburgh buses are standing room only on the way downtown in the morning. (Commuting, in general, sucks.) A lot of the faces are familiar, but a lot of the faces change. The young white man who pushed past her this morning was drop-dead gorgeous in his business suit, took the time to apologize when the bus braking knocked him into her, smiled back when she smiled at him even if his mind was clearly on his worries of the day, so it was a _fabulous_ morning. Until lunchtime, anyway, because apparently she'd left her wallet in her other purse. Odd, that, since she was _sure_ she remembered switching it over...

 

A cute tall guy walked into the rest area's information center, grabbed a US map, and left. The clerk didn't take note of it, beyond the standard 'oh hey, cute guy'. The cute tall guy walked back in ten minutes later, grabbed a Virginia map, and walked back out. He noted the funny gold necklace the guy was wearing and laid a bet with himself that the guy was gay. The cute tall guy walked back in ten minutes later and spent twenty minutes sorting through the racks of pamphlets about tourist attractions in the Richmond area. This time he let himself ogle. The cute tall guy left with a few pamphlets. He decided it was time for a smoke break. The cute tall guy headed straight for one of the out-of-the-way picnic tables, where another cute guy was waiting. Two for the price of one and score one for the gaydar, which made up for both the cute guys being taken.

What the hell were they doing over there that involves _fire_?

Before he'd gone four steps, the fire was gone, and then so were the cute guys, into their dusty black car and vanished down the highway. At the table where they'd been, there was only a lot of ash.

 

_Back in black, I hit the sack, I've been too long, I'm glad to be back_—it was a definite change from the usual music in this bar. A pleasant change, she decided, grinning at the guy at the jukebox as he came up to the bar. He didn't order anything, though, just asked how much to pay the tab of his buddies there, then handed over a few dollars more. _Forget the hearse 'cause I'll never die, I got nine lives,_ and from the looks on the two rednecks' faces this guy wasn't someone they were expecting to see and neither was his friend. But the four of them settled their problem outside the bar and none of them were skipping out on paying, so she didn't give a damn.

Two days later there was an article in the paper, two dead men and a pickup truck burnt to a crisp. She grimaced, reading, and put it out of her mind.

 

A silver knife at his left ankle. An iron knife at his right. A pocketknife in his left pocket. A rosary and a holy-water flask in his right. Ruby's knife tucked in his belt, Dean's amulet thudding against his chest as though he's alone again (he startles like he did after Florida, after Illinois, sense-memory telling him Dean's not there until his eyes remind him Dean's at his side), a loaded pistol at his back. Knowledge in his brain and blood in his veins.

Maybe Dean's right about him; maybe he should just leave Dean behind, throw himself into the addiction and the power until it damns him, until he runs out of new leases on life. He doesn't want to go to hell—who would?—but given a choice between physical torture followed by the chance to get some of his own back from other demons, knowing Dean's forever has fireworks and crustless sandwiches, and the emotional torment of having both their forevers be tied together (soulmates; they can't disentangle themselves no matter how hard they try) tearing each other apart...

But Dean's amulet thumps his heart, and he looks over at Dean and remembers living without him, how it wasn't living at all.

He's not strong enough to leave again.


End file.
